Dreams simple and unadorned. We all have them. This was written in 1999 after almost twenty years of the same dream.
I am slowly moving uncontrolled through a dark forbidding space surrounded by numbers that exude malevolence and are too large to be counted, but I attempt to count anyway. The more I count the larger and more the numbers become. The longer the dream the more desperate and helpless I become. When I wake in the dark, alone in the room sweat is great and cold on my body, my mouth dry and sandy and my throat and chest tight as a drum.
NOCTURNAL TREPIDATIONS
The dreams began so long ago,
across a country and an ocean.
I do not know from whence they came
or what put them into motion.
They start out with the counting,
numbers that never cease.
I swim and pitch amongst them
and feel the anger of the beast.
The monster lives within me,
but to others is not there
but in nasty little glimpses
which emerge from latent fear.
My sleep is seldom steady,
as I fight with restless ghosts.
The mother of my silent screams
rules nights as loathsome host.
To wake and lie in horror,
as the night begins to creep
move the numbers ever closer
as the terror makes me weep.
A bottle calls me clearly,
as a place where I can cower.
Old Jack and number seven
give the numbers greater power.
Time is not the answer,
as the numbers still remain.
They linger in the darkness
as a subtle soaking pain.
